《My Bride Of Gluttony [Victorian Era, Slow Burn Romance Dark Fantasy Story]》
Chapter 1: Circus Act
(Third Turn)
(9th hour)
The streets of Drakhelm, a city where iron towers clawed at a sky choked with soot, pulsed with rare excitement. Beneath the watchful glow of gas lamps, a chorus of youthful voices cut through the morning mist¡ªpaperboys, their hands ink-stained from freshly printed news, shouted their headlines with unrestrained fervor.
¡°Step right up! Step right up! The Crimson Masquerade returns tonight! The greatest circus in all of Aetheros! Only one night, don¡¯t miss it!¡±
The air buzzed with anticipation. Families wove through the bustling streets, their boots clicking against damp cobblestones as they gathered around fluttering paper flyers that danced through the air like autumn leaves. Women in tailored dresses of deep plum and emerald held their hats against the breeze, while men in long woolen coats adjusted their brass-capped canes, speaking in hushed, excited tones. Children darted between the crowds, their laughter sharp and bright as they snatched at the gilded invitations that littered the street.
¡°It¡¯s finally here?!¡±
¡°It¡¯s about damn time.¡±
¡°Finally something to lighten the mood after the recent attacks.¡±
A young boy, barely past his eighth year, caught one mid-air and clutched it with reverence. His fingers traced the exquisite, curling script embossed in gold ink on thick ivory parchment.
?????? ?????????????? ???????????????????? ????????????
???????????? ?????? ??????????, ?????????? ?????????? ?????? ???????????? ????????.
?????????????? ????????. ???? ?????? ???????? ???????????? ?????? ????????.
?????????????? ???? ?????? ???????????? ????????????. ?????????? ???????? ???? ?????? ???????????? ????????!
He turned to his mother, his voice quivering with excitement. ¡°Can we go? Please? They say Morrick the Starless is performing tonight!¡±
Nearby, a merchant polishing his brass pocket watch chuckled at the name. ¡°Aye, the Starless One himself. You¡¯ve got a good eye, lad.¡±
Another one chimed in, ¡°He¡¯s a magician with no Soul Infused Alchemy. Those without the ability to use it are basically normal, but now I¡¯ve heard he¡¯s able to do extraordinary things!¡±
¡°Yeah I gotta see for myself now.¡±
At the sound of the name, murmurs spread through the gathered crowd. Morrick the Starless. A performer unlike any other, a man whose feats defied reason, whose very presence seemed to pull the light from the air. Some said he was a magician who had bargained with something beyond reality.
From the depths of the boulevard, a distant tremor rumbled through the streets. The Steel Gear were moving.
Towering figures of brass and iron, their bodies a blend of intricate cogs and alchemic plating, marched through the city in measured, deliberate steps. Their joints hissed with bursts of pressurized steam, their glass-domed cores glowing faintly from within, revealing the pulsing alchemical heartstones that kept them alive. Their blank, expressionless faces turned only slightly as they passed the crowds, heavy footfalls sending faint shudders through the cobblestones.
They were constructs of the empire¡ªwatchmen, enforcers, mechanical sentinels that ensured order in places where men dared not tread. And yet, despite their artificial nature, there was something almost¡ human in the way they carried themselves. As if something deeper lurked beneath the gears and steel plating.
The tremors faded as the last of the Steel Gear vanished around a corner, and the conversations resumed. The excitement for the circus swelled once more, the murmurs now laced with an undeniable urgency.
Tonight.
Tonight, the Crimson Masquerade would return.
____________________________________________
The circus was unlike anything else in Drakhelm.
The Sanctioned Vault, a sprawling structure of deep crimson and black, stood beneath a veil of golden lanterns that hung like captured stars. The vast tent of the Masquerade stretched toward the heavens, its silken fabric embroidered with twisting patterns of silver and onyx, depicting creatures that had never walked the waking world. Strange, unblinking masks adorned the entrance, each one unique, their hollow eyes following the guests as they entered.
The scent of warm caramel, spiced cider, and the faintest tinge of incense drifted through the cool evening air. Vendors called out from beneath striped awnings, offering sugared almonds and candied plums. A tightrope walker practiced above the main stage, her silhouette dancing across the high beams like a wraith against the flickering light.
Then¡ª
The lanterns dimmed all at once, plunging the crowd into a moment of breathless anticipation. The murmurs, the laughter, the shuffling of boots on sawdust¡ªall fell silent.
Then¡ª
¡°It¡¯s starting! Shh,¡±
A sudden burst of golden light flared across the grand stage as the curtains flung open with a dramatic flourish. A gust of perfumed wind swirled through the air, carrying the rustle of velvet, the gleam of silver, the promise of something extraordinary.
A figure stepped forward, and the world seemed to shift around him.
With a sweeping, theatrical bow, he extended his arms wide, his black suit gleaming under the stage lights, its deep crimson carvings curling like living veins across the fine fabric. His white gloves flashed as he clapped his hands together, sending a sharp, ringing sound through the expectant hush.
Then¡ª
He laughed.
A bold, ecstatic laugh, full of flair and indulgence, rich with an energy that rippled through the audience like the crackle of fire in a cold hearth. It was the kind of laugh that commanded attention¡ªmagnetic, infectious, impossible to ignore.
¡°Ladies and gentlemen! Children and dreamers! Seekers of marvels and mischief!¡± His voice boomed with mirth, every syllable rolling off his tongue like a melody. He took a step forward, spinning on his heel, his red crystal earrings glinting as he threw out his arms in invitation.
¡°Welcome, one and all, to the grand spectacle of the century! The realm of wonders! The kingdom of impossibilities!¡±
He thrust his cane high into the air¡ªa cane that had not been in his hand a moment before¡ªletting the crowd bask in the theatrical flourish of his movements, his boundless enthusiasm woven into every step, every flick of his wrist, every flashing grin behind the mask.
Through the ivory-carved eye sockets, his red irises burned with mischief, glinting like molten rubies as he let the tension build.
¡°I am your humble guide, your weaver of wonders, your maestro of the impossible¡ªLucien Albrecht!¡± He spun the cane between gloved fingers, then struck it against the ground with a resounding clap that sent sparks dancing across the stage.
A roar of applause erupted from the audience, laughter and cheers breaking through the charged air.
Lucien¡¯s grin widened under his mask, his every movement alive with flamboyant energy, his presence commanding yet impossibly magnetic. He paced along the stage¡¯s edge, his coat flaring with every dramatic turn, his excitement radiating through the air like a living pulse.
¡°Tonight, dear guests, you will witness wonders unseen, dreams made flesh! Creatures of the abyss! Dances that defy gravity!¡± He leaned forward, his voice dipping into an almost-whisper, as if sharing a secret meant only for them.
¡°And, of course, the performance of a man who has no past¡ no future¡ a man who walks without a shadow¡¡±
A shiver of anticipation ran through the crowd.
¡°I give you¡ the one, the only¡ªMORRICK THE STARLESS!¡±
With a dramatic flourish, Lucien flung his arm toward the far end of the stage¡ªwhere the curtain billowed violently, as if something beyond it was clawing to be revealed.
The audience erupted into cheers, hands clapping, feet stomping, voices chanting the name of the enigmatic performer.
Lucien laughed once more, drinking in the energy like fine wine.
Then he stepped back, twirling his cane, his red eyes gleaming as the show began.
The air inside the Vault crackled with an energy so thick it was nearly tangible. Gaslight chandeliers flickered overhead, casting long, restless shadows across the crimson-draped stage, where the show was about to begin. The audience leaned forward, breath held, as Lucien Albrecht strode across the stage like a conductor before an orchestra of chaos, his red crystal earrings catching the light, his white gloves flashing with every grand gesture.
¡°Ladies and gentlemen! Boys and girls! Seekers of the miraculous and the morbid!¡± Lucien¡¯s voice rang through the vault, his energy like a wildfire, erratic and consuming. He twirled his cane, his long black coat lined with crimson carvings flaring behind him, and pointed to the great, mechanical stage as it shifted and groaned, gears grinding beneath the wooden planks.
¡°For decades, men have whispered of his name! Scholars have debated his feats! Superstition has shrouded him in legend!¡± Lucien¡¯s voice dipped into a conspiratorial hush before rising into a booming, ecstatic crescendo.
¡°Behold! The one! The only! The man without a past! The performer without a shadow! The great, the inescapable¡ªMORRICK THE STARLESS!¡±
A violent hiss of steam erupted from the center of the stage as the floor split apart, releasing a cloud of golden vapor. A series of great iron chains unraveled from the rafters, their thick links clanking loudly as they lowered a man from above, his silhouette descending through the mist like a fallen star.
And then¡ªhe emerged.
Morrick the Starless was a vision of theatrical perfection. His body was wrapped in heavy blackened chains, their thick, rune-etched links coiling around his muscular frame like iron serpents. His skin was pale, his physique lean and sculpted, his bare chest marked with elegant silver tattoos¡ªsymbols of old magicians, wards against failure, glyphs of triumph. He wore billowing, deep indigo trousers, the cuffs embroidered with tiny silver stars that shimmered with each movement. His midnight-blue sash, lined with crescent moons, snapped in the heat of the stage lights.
But it was his face that held the audience captive.
His dark violet eyes burned with electric passion, framed by sharp, chiseled cheekbones and a jawline cut from stone. His long, raven-black hair was braided down his back, streaked with hints of deep cobalt¡ªdyed in a ritual that symbolized mastery of his craft. And despite the ominous chains clinging to his body, despite the doom-laden descent, his grin was enormous.
He was radiant, triumphant, unshaken.
Because this?
This was everything he had ever wanted.
As the chains clanked, lowering him further toward the pit below, the audience gasped in horror. The ground beneath him was splitting apart, revealing a swirling chasm of molten gold and crimson fire. Lava bubbled and roared, steam curling toward the ceiling in ghostly tendrils. The temperature in the Vault rose in an instant, sweat beading on the brows of the spectators.
A voice boomed. Lucien¡¯s voice.
¡°A pit of fire! A maw of flame! No man¡ªNO mortal¡ªhas ever escaped its grasp! And yet¡ does he fear? Does he hesitate?! A man who has no soul infused power!
Morrick threw his head back and laughed.
A wild, joyous, unrestrained laugh.
¡®I was born for this!¡¯
His muscles tensed, veins pulsing as he flexed against the metal constraints. He could hear the gasps of the crowd, feel their fear, their awe, their worship. This was what he craved¡ªthis moment, this raw, undeniable proof that he was the greatest performer to ever breathe.
His heart pounded.
¡®This is what I always wanted. My wish came true..¡¯
He could see himself as a child, practicing escapes in a candlelit attic, his hands bound in stolen rope. He could hear his own whispered promises¡ªOne day, they will all know my name.
And now?
Now he was here.
Now he was a legend.
The chains sank lower.
The crowd screamed.
The lava roared, its heat licking his skin like a dragon¡¯s breath.
And then¡ªhe moved.
With a sudden, violent twist, Morrick flung his arms wide, his entire body tensing with years of practiced precision. The chains snapped loose, some shattering from the heat, others clattering into the abyss. In one fluid, heart-stopping motion, he flipped himself backward, soaring through the steam-laden air, twisting¡ªtwisting¡ªtwisting¡ªat insane speeds.
And then he landed.
Feet planted. Arms raised. Chains hanging loose around his shoulders.
A single tear slipped down his cheek.
He had done it.
He had become everything he had ever dreamed of.
The crowd erupted in a hurricane of cheers, applause, screams of exhilaration. Hats were thrown into the air, drinks spilled, people roared his name in triumph.
¡°So the rumors were true¡?!¡±
¡°Insane¡¡±
¡°Impossible!¡±
Morrick lifted his face toward the golden lights, his chest heaving, his skin slick with sweat. He closed his eyes, basking in the moment.
And then¡ª
Then, in a single, deafening second¡ª
His head exploded.
A monstrous, gut-wrenching bang shattered the celebration. A violent spray of crimson and bone burst outward, showering the floor in grotesque flecks of flesh and blood. His body jerked violently, his arms spasming once¡ªtwice¡ªbefore collapsing onto the blood-slicked stage.
The audience screamed.
People gasped, shrieked, shoved past one another, scrambling for the exits as shock and terror overtook them.
And in the chaos¡ªstanding unshaken¡ªwas Lucien, slowly smiling under his mask again.
His red eyes burned beneath the ivory mask, his white gloves stained with blood. In his hand, still smoking from the shot, was a golden revolver pistol, its barrel adorned with twisting red sigils that pulsed with dying embers.
The corpse of Morrick twitched at his feet.
Lucien tilted his head, then sighed, voice dripping with mock disappointment.
¡°What a damn shame. He was actually pretty good.¡±
The crowd erupted in terrified shrieks, people trampling over each other, knocking over chairs, clawing toward the exit. Lucien, however, remained unbothered, rolling his shoulders as he turned toward the stampeding mass of horrified guests.
Then, in a sharp, almost playfully menacing tone, he called out:
¡°Relax, people! I just did you all a favor! Can¡¯t have a room full of corpses when things go to hell, now can we?¡±
His grin widened, fangs just barely visible behind the mask.
¡°Besides. The real show¡¯s about to start.¡±
And as he turned back toward Morrick¡¯s lifeless, blood-drenched body¡ª
The corpse began to move, his corpse had twitched.
¡°Bleh. I only shot you because it would make everyone leave. I know it wouldn¡¯t kill you easily.¡±
At first, it was a subtle thing¡ªa slight jerk of the fingers, a faint tremor rolling through his lifeless limbs. But then, as if something had gripped him from the inside and wrenched him upright, his body convulsed violently, his spine snapping back into place with a sickening crack.
Lucien continued, ¡°Besides, this was the only way I could get close to you, because you were super hard to find. And I¡¯m not gonna lie, that was pretty fun.¡±
Then¡ªthe change began.
A black halo flickered into existence above Morrick¡¯s head, a shifting, crystalline ring, its edges jagged like fractured obsidian. His eyes hollowed out into pools of pure blackness, void-like, soulless, infinite. Beneath them, thick black veins crept down his face, branching outward like the roots of a dying tree.
And then, in grotesque, eldritch horror¡ªhis body reassembled itself.
Stolen novel; please report.
Chunks of black, red, and gray rot fused together, knitting torn flesh and shattered bone into something new, something monstrous, something not human. His form bulged, twisted, stretched unnaturally, his skin flaking away as a crimson and black exoskeleton hardened over his body like living armor. His fingers elongated into hooked claws, tendrils of blackened flesh coiling and writhing like dying embers.
Behind him, the air warped. A massive, spinning crest manifested, its black surface shifting like oil on water. It was the shape of a hand, upright, fingers reaching toward the heavens¡ªan omen, a mark of something far worse than death.
And then, he screamed.
A howling, feral roar, not of rage¡ªbut of recognition.
His pitch-black eyes snapped toward Lucien.
¡°Y-You¡¡± His voice was distorted, layered with something deeper, something wrong. His mouth curled into a snarl.
¡°You must be¡ that Witch Hunter. The one who died¡.! That energy¡¡±
Lucien didn¡¯t flinch.
Instead, he sighed, rolling his shoulders as he stared down the monster that had once been a man. He adjusted the grip on his golden pistol, its red sigils still smoldering, and with casual disinterest, he responded¡ª
¡°Close, but not quite. I don¡¯t just hunt witches. Not anymore anyway.¡±
He took a step forward, unbothered, unafraid.
¡°I purge things like you. The ones who take the Marked Ones¡¯ black crystals¡ªbegging for their pathetic little wishes, thinking they can cheat fate. Or, I just hunt anything for a good price. A kill is a kill, no matter the execution.¡± Lucien snarled with a menacing grin.
Morrick¡¯s breath hitched. His grotesque chest rose and fell in shuddering heaves, as if some part of him¡ªthe man still inside¡ªwas realizing the truth.
Lucien tilted his head, his voice taking on a mocking tone.
¡°Oh? You thought you¡¯d get what you wanted, just like that? Thought there wasn¡¯t a cost? You poor bastard.¡± He exhaled, feigning disappointment. ¡°You sold your soul. You ain¡¯t human anymore. Gotta put you down, need my soul back and stuff. No hard feelings.¡±
Morrick froze.
His body twitched, spasmed, as if something was trying to pull him apart from the inside. His black, clawed hands shot up, gripping his skull. His breathing became erratic, his mind struggling to process the sheer horror of what was happening to him.
¡°No¡ no, no, no¡ this¡ this isn¡¯t¡ I just wanted¡ª¡±
His voice broke.
¡°You wanted to be the best, I get it, I do. You have no soul infused alchemy, so you don¡¯t have super magic stuff going on with you besides the fact that the crystal is now taking over your entire soul and shit. So merging with the crystal made your wish come true, but at what cost? Desperate much?¡±
A final, wrenching roar tore from Morrick¡¯s throat as the last remnants of his sanity snapped.
And then, in pure, uncontrollable rage¡ªhe charged.
Morrick¡¯s chains lashed out, screeching through the air with a metallic howl. Lucien didn¡¯t move. Not at first.
The first impact came like a meteor strike. The moment Morrick¡¯s chains collided with Lucien¡¯s ribs, the force detonated outward, shattering the wooden planks beneath them, sending a shockwave rippling through the Vault. The audience, those who hadn¡¯t yet fled, screamed as debris exploded into the stands.
¡°Ouch.¡± Lucien chuckled.
Morrick didn¡¯t stop.
¡°RAGHHHHHH!¡±
Like a primal beast unchained, he lunged, twisted, spun, his chains whipping through the air in a lethal dance. He cleaved and hurled his attacks with monstrous speed, his grotesque form a blur of red and black rot, raw strength, and berserk madness, slashing Lucien all over thee place.
Lucien stood still.
Even as chains coiled around his throat, even as he was lifted and hurled through a row of flaming torches, even as the ground beneath him splintered from impact after impact¡ªhe did not react. No grunts of pain. No gasps. No resistance.
And Morrick noticed.
¡°WHY AREN¡¯T YOU SCREAMING?!¡± he bellowed, his voice cracking, desperate, enraged. His chains lashed forward again, again, again, cleaving through the wreckage of the circus like a hurricane.
Lucien let him.
Blow after devastating blow, his body was hurled, shattered, beaten. The force of each strike sent shockwaves through the air, carving deep, ragged trenches into the ruined stage. Morrick roared, his movements becoming erratic, frenzied, his attacks losing rhythm, his fury burning hotter.
¡°THIS WAS MY DREAM!¡± Morrick howled, his voice a mangled mess of anguish and madness.
¡°I was supposed to be the best! I was supposed to be remembered! I¡ª¡±
He hesitated.
For just one second.
And in that second¡ªLucien moved.
He stood up¡Slowly¡Deliberately; Through the smoke and dust, through the ruin of the shattered circus, his red eyes gleamed, unreadable. Menacing. He rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck, flexed his gloved fingers¡ªcompletely unfazed.
Then, in a voice low, mocking, and laced with something cruel, he spoke.
¡°Huh. Guess you didn¡¯t hear me the first time.¡±
Morrick¡¯s chains coiled like vipers, ready to strike again.
Lucien grinned.
¡°I don¡¯t die that easy.¡±
Morrick snapped.
With inhuman speed, he vanished, his chains whipping around the battlefield in a lethal spiral, aiming to carve Lucien apart from all angles. At the same time, he dashed in unpredictable bursts, shifting directions, becoming nothing more than a blur of shadow, speed, and bloodlust.
Lucien didn¡¯t flinch. And when the moment came¡ªhe caught the chains.
With one hand.
Then his fell slowly.
And the moment his face was revealed, his grin widened into something feral.
The chains ignited.
A violent surge of crimson flame erupted from Lucien¡¯s grasp, racing up the length of the metal links like a living thing. Morrick barely had time to react before the fire engulfed him¡ª
And then¡ª
Lucien yanked.
The chains, now superheated, twisted mid-air, then snapped forward like spears. They pierced straight through Morrick¡¯s chest, the impact splitting the air with a thunderous crack.
And Lucien laughed.
¡°More¡more!¡± A low, maddened chuckle that rose into something unhinged.
With one final pull, he wrenched Morrick toward him¡ª
And then he punched him.
The world exploded.
A shockwave of red energy detonated outward, flames bursting like a dying star, half the circus obliterated in a single, brutal impact.
And as the dust settled¡ª
Lucien flicked his wrist.
A single playing card with a Joker on it spun between his fingers.
The fight had just begun.
Morrick lunged, a blur of monstrous speed, his chains splitting the air with violent howls. But Lucien was already moving.
With a single, effortless twist, he vaulted sideways, letting the chains cleave through empty space where his skull had been a breath earlier. Before Morrick could react, Lucien spun mid-air, his coat flaring like a black storm as his fist drove into the beast¡¯s ribs.
The impact shattered the air, rippling outward like a collapsed star. Morrick¡¯s body crumpled inward, the sheer force hurling him backward. But Lucien was already there. He closed the distance in a heartbeat, his movements seamless, relentless, godlike. He somersaulted forward, using the momentum to drive his heel into Morrick¡¯s shoulder, forcing the monstrosity to the ground.
But before Morrick could even process the pain, Lucien twisted again¡ªhis leg a whiplash of speed as it carved upward, smashing into Morrick¡¯s jaw, sending the beast into a full-body spinning ascent.
A heartbeat.
Lucien vanished once again like a lightning bolt.
Before gravity could even reclaim Morrick, Lucien reappeared mid-air above him, his fist already drawn back¡ª
And then he descended.
Like a meteor from the heavens, his punch slammed down into Morrick¡¯s chest, driving him straight into the earth with a cataclysmic shockwave. The entire stage ruptured, wood and steel splintering outward in an explosion of debris. The Vault itself groaned, lanterns swinging violently, walls buckling under the force of impact.
Morrick convulsed, his form twitching, snapping, breaking¡ªbut his body refused to die. His jaws stretched wide, his throat releasing a horrific, guttural howl¡ªbut the words that followed were not of man.
¡°??????¡¯?????? ????????????????¡ ????????¡¯???? ?????? ???????? ???? ??????????????????!¡±
The words slithered through the air like rot given voice, echoing from another time, another place, another reality.
Lucien paused. His grin flickered¡ªjust a moment. Then he exhaled sharply, shaking his head.
¡°Tch. You sound like a dying priest.¡±
Morrick screamed.
His chains lashed outward like a swarm of serpents, spiraling in countless directions, their blackened tips seeking flesh, seeking blood, seeking vengeance.
Lucien¡ªlaughing¡ªdodged, wove, twisted, spun.
The battlefield became a blur of metal and fire, of red and black. Morrick¡¯s monstrous arms sliced, cleaved, shattered the space where Lucien had been mere milliseconds before. Every miss came with a crushing, explosive shockwave, debris launching into the air as the circus continued to crumble around them.
Then¡ªLucien struck.
A single, devastating uppercut drove through Morrick¡¯s guard, his claws missing by mere inches. The force sent the beast careening skyward, but Lucien was already ascending after him.
At impossible speed, Lucien spiraled through the air, catching Morrick mid-flight. His arms coiled around the monster¡¯s torso¡ª
Then¡ªa violent twist.
With a ferocious, aerial spin, Lucien drove Morrick downward like a divine executioner, his body slamming into the ground with an earth-shattering crash.
Dust. Silence. Cracking flames.
Lucien stood over the crater, twirling his joker card between his fingers.
And then¡ªanother card appeared.
Then another.
And another.
A Queen. A King. A Jack.
The air around him shifted, darkened, pulsed with unnatural energy. The cards lifted into the air, hovering, their edges glowing with celestial intensity.
Lucien¡¯s grin stretched wide.
Morrick, struggling to rise, hesitated. His blackened eyes narrowed as he beheld what was coming.
For the first time since his transformation¡ªhe felt fear.
Lucien exhaled, stretching his arms, rolling his shoulders. Then, without looking back at his summoned horrors, he flicked his wrist.
And then, the cards burned.
¡®Power of the goddess of chaos, the one who annoyingly brought me back to this wretched land of the living¡I hate being bound to this power, and her, but¡if I¡¯m gonna get my revenge, and get my soul back, using it is the best option.¡¯
The air twisted and folded in on itself, as if reality itself was reshuffling. The Queen. The King. The Jack. The Joker. Each card lifted, suspended mid-air, glowing with eldritch intensity, their ornate surfaces shifting, warping¡ªthen peeling apart like pages of an ancient tome.
And from them¡ªfour titanic entities emerged.
The Joker
A towering, nightmarish figure, standing at a terrifying 18 feet tall, its double-bladed scythe resting across its broad, skeletal shoulders. Its body was a chaotic patchwork of black and red, adorned with ornate golden filigree that pulsed like veins of molten metal. But its mask¡ªthat was its most haunting feature.
A single, massive porcelain face adorned its head, split vertically down the middle. One half was a manic, grinning jester, its teeth razor-sharp, its painted eye frozen in an expression of endless mirth. The other half? A twisted, hollow-eyed frown, cracked and sorrowful, yet seething with malice. The two halves would shift at random, the mask twisting whenever the Joker moved.
The Joker did not walk. It glided, twisting and bending unnaturally, its form coiling like smoke. With a flick of its scythe, reality itself seemed to split apart, distortions rippling wherever the curved blades carved through the air.
The King
The King descended from above, regal yet terrible in presence, its form clad in a brilliant suit of gilded armor, its deep crimson cape flowing like living silk. Its face was obscured behind a faceless golden helm, with only a single, burning sigil where its right eye should be¡ªa mark of absolute power.
In its hands, it gripped a colossal greatsword of pure celestial light, its blade seemingly woven from the stars themselves. Every movement the King made was precise, deliberate, a warrior who did not waste a single strike.
And yet, despite its grandeur, there was an eerie, hollow weight to it. Something that suggested the King had no will of its own¡ªonly duty.
The Queen
She materialized in an instant, stepping forth like a forgotten deity returned to the world. Cloaked in a flowing robe of deep violet and shimmering silver, gold-threaded butterflies fluttering within its translucent fabric, the Queen was a figure of both beauty and quiet menace.
Her eyes were completely white, void of pupils, glowing faintly with a soft, ethereal haze. Her headdress, an elaborate crown of twisting silver branches, extended outward in curling arcs that resembled woven storm clouds. In her hands, she wielded a massive, gilded war fan, its edges razor-sharp, the surface painted with ever-shifting images of windswept landscapes and golden tempests.
When she flicked the fan¡ªthe air itself shattered.
A single wave of her hand sent gales powerful enough to sunder stone, the very oxygen in the room bending to her whim. She moved without a sound, as if she existed outside the laws of nature, her presence both soothing and apocalyptic at the same time.
The Jack
The last to emerge was the Jack. And unlike the others, he did not descend with authority, nor did he move with godlike grace. Instead, he swaggered into existence, shifting his shoulders, his movements fluid and unpredictable, like an assassin made of silk and smoke.
His form was wrapped in a sleek, midnight-blue coat, gold thread swirling through the fabric in cryptic, arcane symbols that never stayed the same. A mask of white porcelain covered his face, featureless except for two slanted, slitted black eyes that seemed to shift and change whenever one blinked.
He held a curved, needle-thin rapier, its silver blade etched with ancient, spiraling runes that pulsed dimly with an unsettling glow. But in his left hand, he wielded something far more sinister¡ªa coiling, whip-like chain, serrated at the ends, which shimmered in and out of visibility as if it were phasing between worlds.
Unlike the others, the Jack moved constantly, never still, always shifting, always watching. And though he never spoke, his head tilted every so slightly, as if amused, as if mocking the idea of combat itself.
Lucien looked at them, saying, ¡°Ya guys gonna kill him or what?¡±
Morrick staggered.
For the first time, his berserk fury faltered. His void-like eyes flickered between the towering entities with something dangerously close to hesitation.
Lucien, standing before them, smirked.
¡°You¡¯re already dead, monster.¡±
He flicked his wrist¡ªa simple, final command.
¡°Kill him.¡±
The summoned warriors did not speak, but they moved.
The Joker spun first, its scythe carving the air, a flash of red and gold as its twin blades split the battlefield apart. The King followed, bringing his colossal sword down, a radiant arc of destruction shattering everything in its wake.
The Queen vanished, only to reappear above Morrick, her war fan slicing horizontally, unleashing a whirlwind of razor-sharp air that tore through steel and flesh alike.
And the Jack? He was everywhere and nowhere, a blur of silver and dark energy, his rapier piercing through space itself, his serrated chain wrapping around Morrick¡¯s limbs, tightening like a noose.
Morrick roared, thrashed, fought.
The blood-soaked remnants of the theater were thick with the stench of death, the flickering embers of ruined chandeliers casting grotesque shadows against the grand yet ruined hall. In the center of it all lay what remained of Morrick, the so-called Performer of Atrocities, his body a mangled, unrecognizable heap. And surrounding him, looming like eldritch specters, were the four summoned horrors¡ªthe Joker, the King, the Queen, and the Jack¡ªeach displaying their own silent, terrifying artistry in the slaughter.
The Joker was the most animated, twirling its double-bladed scythe with eerie fluidity, its mask shifting unpredictably between a manic grin and a sorrowful frown. It moved in erratic, nightmarish contortions, as if its very form was an extension of madness itself. One moment it would split reality with a flick of its scythe, warping the air around it, and the next, it would pause dramatically, tilting its massive head toward the Jack, as if expecting applause.
The Jack, ever the rogue, merely gave a slow, exaggerated shrug before flicking his rapier through the air, carving clean, effortless slashes into the corpse below. His masked face betrayed no emotion, but his posture screamed amusement¡ªmockery, even. The serrated chain in his left hand coiled and struck like a serpent, seemingly phasing between dimensions before latching onto one of Morrick¡¯s already-severed limbs and flinging it across the hall.
The Queen was almost elegant in her brutality, her massive war fan slicing through the air with a sound like tearing silk. Each flick of her wrist sent cyclonic gales that shattered the remnants of Morrick¡¯s bones, reducing them to dust. Despite the carnage, she moved with serene poise, her white, pupil-less eyes betraying neither wrath nor pleasure¡ªonly the cold inevitability of destruction.
And then there was the King, standing in solemn judgment. The celestial light of its greatsword cast an ethereal glow over the ruinous battlefield. Unlike the others, it did not revel in the violence. It did not mock, nor did it play. It simply executed, striking with mechanical precision, as if bound to a duty that extended beyond understanding.
Lucien watched them, arms crossed, the ghost of a smirk on his face.
Then, the sound of shifting rubble snapped him back to the present. He turned just in time to see a massive chunk of debris hurtling toward a small, terrified child¡ªa survivor of the audience that had once filled this cursed theater. Without thinking, Lucien moved.
¡®Shit!¡¯
In an instant, he was there, scooping the child up and twisting his body mid-air to take the brunt of the impact. The stone crashed into the floor where the child had been standing just seconds before, sending dust and broken wood splintering outward. The kid trembled in his grasp, wide eyes locked onto him.
Lucien sighed, patting the child¡¯s head before setting them down. ¡°Get lost, brat.¡±
The child hesitated, staring at him for a beat too long, before scrambling away into the ruins. ¡°Th-thank you!¡±
Lucien exhaled, rolling his shoulders, when a voice, silken and edged with quiet amusement, slithered from above.
¡°I forgot you had a soft spot for children, Bloodhound.¡±
Lucien¡¯s smirk didn¡¯t falter, even as his sharp eyes flicked upward.
Sella Varcosta leaned against a ruined archway high above, the perfect picture of careless grace. She was draped in layered black garments, intricate and laced with occult embroidery, her presence exuding a dark, magnetic elegance. A wide-brimmed hat, tattered at the edges, cast a subtle shadow over her sharp features, but nothing could hide the striking contrast of her emerald-green eyes and the pale crescent mark tattoo carved into her forehead. The wind of the battle below toyed with the green-tipped strands of her long, raven hair, making her look less like a hunter and more like a wraith waiting for the perfect moment to strike.
Lucien let out a short chuckle. ¡°You always this dramatic, or were you really hoping I wouldn¡¯t notice you before you had a chance to stick a knife in my back?¡±
Sella¡¯s lips curled into something that wasn¡¯t quite a smile. ¡°I¡¯ll admit, I was hoping for an opening. It¡¯s been a while since I¡¯ve had a clean kill.¡±
Lucien cocked a brow. ¡°That so? What stopped you?¡±
She tilted her head, feigning boredom. ¡°I was busy¡ªhandling the Steel Gear outside. The Bureau¡¯s on their way, by the way. I don¡¯t want anything in the way before I kill you.¡±
Lucien snorted. ¡°Should¡¯ve stabbed me while I was getting my ass kicked by that performer freak, smart one.¡±
Sella smirked. ¡°I considered it. But I wanted to see if you¡¯d actually survive. You¡¯re nothing if not entertaining. You¡¯re oddly¡tough. Like the others say..¡±
Lucien scoffed, but there was no real heat to it.
Sella studied him for a moment, arms crossed. ¡°I haven¡¯t seen you in a long time. After all that hunting, all that training, and now you finally show up again¡ªlike a bad omen.¡± Her expression darkened slightly. ¡°The Black Chapel won¡¯t stop this time, Lucien. They¡¯ll send as many Black Clerics as it takes to put you down.¡±
Lucien shrugged, completely unbothered. ¡°Yeah, well, I was kinda forced back into the world by some annoying-ass goddess of chaos or something. Have to kill 1,000 Purges like Morrick just to get my soul back.¡± He flicked the remains of blood off his coat. ¡°So I can¡¯t die. Not yet.¡±
Sella hummed, tapping a gloved finger against her lips. ¡°That is annoying.¡±
¡°And you just believe me?¡±
¡°After seeing you get your ass handed to you on purpose by this freak, I believe it. You did it on purpose?¡±
¡°Noticed you ever since I pulled the trigger.¡±
Sella made no move to attack, only watching him with the glint of a cat toying with a mouse. He knew her type. She¡¯d kill him, sure. But she¡¯d do it on her terms, when it was fun, when it mattered.
¡°I¡¯ll just sit back and enjoy the show, then,¡± she said, stepping back into the shadows. ¡°But next time, I won¡¯t miss my chance.¡±
Lucien grinned, wolfish. ¡°I¡¯m counting on it.¡±
As she vanished, her parting words lingered like an omen.
¡°You should be dead, Bloodhound. Killed by the Exarch of Ash.¡±
Lucien¡¯s grin twitched, his jaw clenching at the name.
¡®The Exarch of Ash.¡¯
That shadowed figure who ruled through wax-sealed decrees and whispers carried by unseen emissaries. The one who had ordered his execution. The one he had sworn vengeance upon. The head of the Black Chapel, of assassins and Witch Hunters.
Lucien exhaled sharply, shoving the thought aside.
¡®Fuck him..that just pissed me off.¡¯
He turned back to his summons. The Joker was miming applause toward the Jack, who in turn gave an exaggerated, dismissive wave. The Queen lifted her war fan with quiet finality, and the King¡ªever silent, ever loyal¡ªstood in unwavering stillness.
Lucien rolled his eyes. ¡°Alright, enough arguing.¡±
He reached for his deck of cards, flicking them outward. One by one, the summons faded, their towering forms condensing into spectral energy before vanishing into their respective cards. The Joker was the last to go, its mask lingering in a half-smirk, half-scowl before dissolving and also waving.
With the chaos finally settling, Lucien stepped toward Morrick¡¯s grotesque remains. He reached deep into the ruin of the corpse, his fingers closing around a black crystal, pulsing faintly with some lingering, malevolent energy.
He lifted it to eye level, the cold weight of it pressing against his palm.
Then, with a grim smirk, he crushed it in his grip, shards of black dust scattering into the air.
¡°1,000 Purge kills¡ You hear that, damn goddess?!¡±
His voice echoed through the ruined theater, met only by the distant, howling wind.
Chapter 2: Torch
The Sanctioned Vault was a graveyard.
What had once been an opulent circus tent, filled with roaring crowds and gilded performances, now lay in charred ruin. Torn crimson fabric fluttered weakly from the skeletal remains of the rafters. Golden chandeliers had collapsed into the splintered floor, their melted wax pooling among the blood. The scent of burnt velvet, scorched flesh, and residual alchemy hung thick in the air, a noxious perfume of destruction.
It was the eighth crystal outbreak this week.
And just like the ones before, there was no trace of the one who caused it.
Captain Adrien Roak of the Inquistion, led the squad inside, his every step methodical, controlled. His long storm-gray coat, reinforced with alchemic silver filigree, hung from broad shoulders, buttoned up to the neck in rigid formality. The high collar framed his sharp-cut jawline, his ashen-blond hair cropped short in a soldier¡¯s cut, a single streak of white running through his temple like a mark of experience¡ªor exhaustion. His piercing ice-blue eyes swept the destruction with a look of hardened indifference, though the tightness in his brow betrayed something deeper.
¡°This makes eight,¡± he muttered, the words edged with irritation. ¡°This is getting repetitive.¡±
¡°To be fair,¡± Ari Vaust drawled, kicking over a broken chair, ¡°this is one of the more exciting ones. Too soon¡? Sorry. My bad.¡±
Ari was the definition of reckless elegance. Her deep auburn hair was only half-tied, loose strands curling around her sharp, fox-like features. Her scarlet coat, trimmed with silver, was worn open over a fitted black corset, a belt strapped diagonally across her hip where three daggers were sheathed in polished leather. She had the look of someone who could switch between charming or stabbing you without changing expressions.
¡°Exciting?¡± Markus Renalt grumbled beside her. ¡°You need a better hobby.¡±
Markus was built like a war machine barely held together. His black duster, tattered at the edges, had once been standard-issue before he had modified it with reinforced plating on the shoulders. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing thick forearms marred with deep, alchemic scarring¡ªtwisting, branching lines etched in burnt silver, remnants of an experiment gone wrong. His dark hair, streaked with premature iron-gray, was messy from weeks of sleep deprivation, his deep-set gray eyes hooded with exhaustion.
¡°We keep getting called to these incidents,¡± he continued, rolling his stiff shoulder, ¡°and we keep coming up with jack shit.¡±
Enoch Duvain, always the quietest of the four, knelt beside a petrified corpse, gloved fingers tracing the fractured crystal skin. He was a shadow wrapped in midnight-black robes, the high collar of his coat nearly swallowing his sharp, gaunt features. Unlike the others, he wore no visible weapons¡ªonly silver rings, each inscribed with intricate, whisper-thin runes that seemed to shift under the light. His jet-black hair, straight and shoulder-length, was pulled back into a loose tail, but a few strands had fallen forward, casting a partial veil over his unnervingly dark eyes.
¡°This is different,¡± he murmured. His voice was low, quiet, yet carried weight.
Adrien turned toward him. ¡°How?¡±
Enoch tilted his head, tapping a fractured shard of blackened crystal. ¡°The corruption pattern. The others spread outward, like a sickness.¡± His fingers traced the jagged edge. ¡°This one looks like it was torn away. As if something was¡¡± He paused. ¡°Extracted.¡±
Ari sighed, crossing her arms. ¡°Great. Cryptic riddles again.¡±
¡°It means,¡± Markus grunted, ¡°we¡¯ve got another dead-end.¡±
A hush fell over the ruin as a new group arrived.
Unlike the armored enforcers, these Inquisitors wore white.
The Pale Choir was both feared and revered¡ªthe Inquisition¡¯s healers, bound by an alchemic burden few could survive. Their long ivory robes, lined with blood-red embroidery, made them stand apart from the others. Hoods draped over their faces, some shadowed, others revealing pale, withered features¡ªsigns of years sacrificed for their craft.
They did not wield weapons, but they did not need to. Their hands, scarred black, worked over the wounded, channeling their own life-force into broken bodies. With every whisper of their incantations, the air shimmered, and the dying were dragged back from the brink¡ªat a cost. A young novice staggered, eyes widening as his hands trembled over a fallen man¡¯s chest. His own breath faltered. His elder caught him, muttering something firm, before taking over the healing himself.
¡°Not all wounds were worth dying for.¡±
Adrien watched impassively before turning away. Mercy had its limits.
Then the temperature shifted.
The air grew heavier, the distant crackling of embers swallowed by an oppressive silence.
Lord Inquisitor Vulthein had arrived.
He stepped through the ruined archway, his black military coat flowing like a judge¡¯s robes, adorned with obsidian filigree and gold-lined insignias of the Inquisition¡¯s highest authority. Armor plating reinforced his shoulders, etched with runes of binding, the silver inlays faintly glowing under the flickering light.
His storm-gray eyes, cold as polished steel, swept over the wreckage with unhidden contempt. His jawline, sharp as a blade, was set in permanent disdain. A single streak of silver ran through his otherwise jet-black hair, neatly combed back, though a few strands had come loose from the night¡¯s wind.
At his heels followed three identical men, their crisp uniforms unblemished.
The Vulthein Triplets¡ªunofficially known as Dumbass, Dumbass, and Dumbass, according to Markus¡ªwere eerily synchronized, each mirroring the other¡¯s movements. All of them shared dark red hair, and light brown eyes with freckles and glasses.
One spoke first. ¡°Lord Vulthein, sir! This is truly the work of a vile heretic¡ª¡±
The second jumped in. ¡°A criminal of the highest order, no doubt! A mark upon our city, a¡ª¡±
The third finished. ¡°A disgrace to the laws you so valiantly uphold!¡±
Ari muttered to Markus, ¡°How the hell does he tell them apart?¡±
Markus exhaled. ¡°Dumbass one, dumbass two, dumbass three.¡±
¡°Haha! Good one..¡±
Adrien shot them both a glare. They shut up.
Ari shoved Markus, ¡°Nice going.¡±
¡°Tch, that was all you. Shouldn¡¯t have said anything.¡±
Vulthein finally spoke, voice low, sharp, unwavering.
¡°Lucien Albrecht is alive.¡±
Silence.
He stepped further inside, his boots crushing a broken crystal underfoot.
Ari shrugged, ¡°Ehhh. How do we know it¡¯s not some fake imposter trying to be Lucien? The guy was pretty popular.¡±
¡°And still be able to make a mess grand as this? Red hair in a braided ponytail? Definitely him, according to a child who said to have been saved by him.¡±
His voice dropped, but the weight behind it only grew heavier.
Vulthein turned, his coat billowing like a specter.
¡°Lucien Albrecht must die. Again. Knowing how he was an insanely violent and dangerous Hunter Assassin for the Black Chapel, he even killed many of our Inquisitors. I¡¯m sure you all remember that day..¡±
The squad looked down with ease and distraught, they remembered how Lucien dangled one of their officers on the edge of a building, claiming her to be a witch, and ripped her in half with his bare hands.
Vulthien continued, ¡°He wants to be seen, he doesn¡¯t care. He¡¯s even more reckless now. There is no imposter. It¡¯s him. The witnesses and child detailed him perfectly. Get ready, because we¡¯re going on a hunt again.¡±
(Above, on the Rooftops)
Drakhelm sprawled beneath Lucien, a restless machine of flesh and iron, stitched together by greed, survival, and desperation. From this height, he could see it all¡ªthe rich drinking their black honey tea on high balconies, wrapped in their silks and safety, their boots never touching filth; the poor huddled under rusted awnings, lit by flickering neon lanterns, their hands outstretched for coin that would never come. The Steel Gear automatons stood at their posts, unyielding and indifferent, their brass-plated torsos glinting under the smog-drowned moonlight as they monitored the streets with their lifeless blue eyes. Merchants hawked their trinkets¡ªcursed lockets, bone charms pulled from the Hollow Wastes, alchemic tinctures promising strength, beauty, or forgetfulness.
Same city, same story.
Lucien barely paid attention.
He was more focused on the damn cat in his hand, his hand wrapped around the cat''s throat.
Named Torch.
Torch dangled from his grip, limp, golden eyes half-lidded in his usual apathetic stare, as if Lucien¡¯s ongoing crisis was nothing more than an inconvenience. The small golden star on his back pulsed faintly, a brand of something unknown, something unnatural.
Lucien scowled.
¡°You little mythic bastard,¡± he muttered, shaking the cat lightly. ¡°You just don¡¯t stop, do you?¡±
Torch blinked. Slowly. Unimpressed.
Lucien scoffed, shaking his head like a man on the edge of a breakdown.
¡°Every time. Every. Single. Time. I leave you behind? You find me. I throw you off a train? You¡¯re waiting at my next stop. I set you on fire? You don¡¯t even flinch. I buried you, buried you, and you came back looking cleaner than before!¡±
Torch yawned.
Lucien¡¯s eye twitched.
¡°Ever since I came back, ever since that damned goddess shoved me back into this world, you¡¯ve been there. Stalking me. Watching me. And every time I think I¡¯ve finally gotten rid of you¡ª¡±
He let go.
Torch fell.
Lucien watched with satisfaction as the cat plummeted, twisting weightlessly through the air. No reaction. No resistance. He simply descended, staring up at Lucien the entire time with that same infuriatingly calm expression.
And then¡ªimpact.
Torch hit the cobblestone hard. A brutal, visceral splatter of fur, bone, and blood. Civilians screamed, staggering back in horror, hands clapping over their mouths. Some ran. Others just stood there, gaping at the grotesque display of what had once been a cat.
Lucien stood still for a moment, staring down over the edge.
Then, slowly, his shoulders began to shake.
A chuckle slipped through his lips, quiet at first, then growing, building, rising into a full-bodied cackle of manic triumph.
¡°I DID IT!¡± he bellowed, throwing his arms out wide, tears of laughter in his eyes. ¡°I FINALLY KILLED THAT LITTLE STALKER!¡±
Behind him, his summons exchanged glances.
The Joker tilted its masked head, its split face twitching as if deciding whether this was a cause for concern. The King merely folded his arms, silent, while the Queen snapped open her fan, hiding whatever expression lay beneath it. The Jack flipped a silver coin in the air, unimpressed.
Lucien wiped at his face, grinning wildly. ¡°Finally, some peace.¡±
And then¡ªsomething heavy landed on his shoulder.
His blood went cold.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he turned his head.
Torch sat there.
Perfectly fine.
Not a single scratch on him.
Lucien stared.
Torch blinked. Flicked his tail.
Lucien screamed.
¡°WHAT THE FUCK?! I SAW YOU DIE!¡±
In a pure panic, Lucien grabbed Torch with both hands around the throat, and slammed him onto the rooftop, pinning him down like he was wrestling a demon incarnate.
¡°YOU WERE DEAD! I SAW IT! I SAW YOU DIE! YOU EXPLODED! THERE WERE ENTRAILS! DIE! DIE NOW!¡±
Torch remained unbothered, yawning and keeping a straight face as his tail wagged.
Lucien¡¯s fingers tightened around the cat¡¯s throat.
¡°WHY WON¡¯T YOU DIE?! WHO ARE YOU?!¡±
The Joker tilted its head.
The Queen¡¯s fan lowered slightly.
The King exhaled quietly through his nose.
And the Jack, ever the nuisance, flicked a coin at Lucien¡¯s forehead.
Lucien flinched as the silver piece bounced off his skull with a sharp tink! He snarled, rubbing his temple.
Torch used the distraction to wiggle free.
Lucien clawed at his hair in exasperation.
¡°I HATE YOU! I HATE EVERYTHING ABOUT YOU!¡±
Torch sat down a few feet away, tail curling around his paws. He began grooming himself, completely indifferent to Lucien¡¯s existential breakdown. Then the Queen kneeled down to pet him, stroking his fur, smiling.
Lucien collapsed onto his back, staring up at the cloudy sky, chest rising and falling with heavy breaths.
The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
I hate this. All of it. Being controlled. Being followed. Being bound to things I don¡¯t understand.
He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply through his nose.
¡®It¡¯s always something. Always. Ever since I clawed my way back, there¡¯s been a chain around my throat. The goddess who owns my soul. The cursed debt that binds me. The mark burning into my spine. Even my own existence isn¡¯t my own. And now, this cat.¡¯
His fingers twitched.
¡®I hate the feeling of being controlled. I always have. I hate people thinking they can put their hands on my life, shove me into their little plans, pull my strings like I¡¯m some leashed dog. That¡¯s why I don¡¯t keep people close. That¡¯s why I don¡¯t trust, why I don¡¯t let things linger. Because love, loneliness, regret¡ªIt¡¯s all just another form of control.¡¯
Lucien let out a slow breath, rubbing a hand down his face.
But still, the thoughts crept in, unwelcome. That quiet, gnawing weight of solitude. He shoved it away.
¡®This is better. It has to be¡even when I try not to let the loneliness get to me..is that why I prance around here like a maniac? Not afraid to get caught? Enjoying society because I hate solitude¡? Am I really that alone¡?¡¯
Then, something warm pressed against his chest.
Lucien opened his eyes.
Torch was sitting on him.
Lucien screamed again.
¡°GET OFF ME!¡±
He flipped over, grabbing the cat and pinning him back down with both hands, his summons moving in the background, watching like spectators at a colosseum fight.
Torch stared up at him. Blinked. Yawned.
Lucien¡¯s eye twitched.
¡°I will end you. I swear to every god left rotting in this world.¡±
Torch flicked his tail.
Lucien¡¯s hands trembled, then let go. Sitting back on his bottom, saying, ¡°Ughh. What am I even doing?¡±
¡
The air was cold against the rooftop a few blocks away from the Sanctioned Vault, the wind tugging at the frayed edges of Lucien¡¯s coat. The city stretched below, a sprawling labyrinth of gas-lit streets and crumbling stone, its veins pulsing with the movements of Inquisition patrols scouring the wreckage for answers they would never find.
He exhaled slowly, the distant hum of officers barking orders a dull murmur beneath him. His gloved fingers absentmindedly flipped through his deck of soul-bound cards, the edge of the Joker card glinting under the moon¡¯s sickly glow.
And then, she arrived.
Lucien felt her before he saw her.
A presence like a storm¡ªcalm, contained, but heavy with the promise of violence.
Sella Varcosta stood at the edge of the rooftop, poised in a way that made it look as if the wind itself had placed her there. Her long, dark coat, lined with silver embroidery and intricate alchemic sigils, billowed slightly as she crossed her arms, leaning against the worn brick wall with a practiced ease. The dim blue glow of Aether lamps below illuminated the sharp, sculpted angles of her face¡ªhigh cheekbones, dark lashes, lips curled in something between amusement and disdain.
Her emerald-green eyes, piercing and calculating, found his immediately; Lucien let out a short chuckle, tapping the deck of cards against his palm.
¡°Didn¡¯t take you long,¡± he muttered.
¡°Like I¡¯d lose your scent,¡± Sella replied smoothly with a seductive smile, pushing off the wall and walking toward him¡ªslow, deliberate steps, the kind a predator made when it knew the kill was inevitable.
There was something striking about her, a presence that demanded attention without ever asking for it. The way her coat was fitted, cinched at the waist with elegant silver clasps but worn enough to show years of movement and use. The way her raven-black hair, streaked with the faintest hints of green at the tips, cascaded over her shoulders in controlled chaos. The way her gloved fingers twitched, ever so slightly, like she was resisting the urge to grab something.
¡®What is this feeling¡ ?¡¯
Or someone.
Lucien watched her with his usual smirk, but his eyes flicked¡ªjust briefly¡ªto the way her gaze kept shifting. Not to his weapons. Not to his mask. But to his neck.
A hunger. Sharp. Sudden. Unwelcome.
Her heart pounded once¡ªloud, demanding.
¡®What the hell is this? This is my first time being so close to him¡and yet¡I feel a weird hunger¡¡¯
She exhaled slowly, forcing herself to focus.
¡°You know why I¡¯m here,¡± she said, voice smooth as glass. ¡°I¡¯m going to kill you, Lucien.¡±
Lucien let out a soft laugh, stretching his arms behind his head. ¡°Yeah, yeah, join the club. You said that before.¡±
Sella¡¯s eyes flickered dangerously. ¡°This isn¡¯t a joke.¡±
¡°It¡¯s a little funny.¡±
She stepped closer. Too close. Close enough that Lucien could smell the faint traces of gunpowder, old books, and something floral beneath it.
She smelled nice.
¡°You think I want to be standing here, talking to you?¡± she murmured, her voice lower now, sharp with something she wasn¡¯t sure she could name. ¡°I don¡¯t. I despise you, Albrecht.¡±
Lucien raised a brow, smirking. ¡°That so?¡±
¡°I¡¯ve devoted everything I have to the Black Chapel,¡± she continued, ignoring the way her pulse quickened again. ¡°I wasn¡¯t there when you were, I was in a different sanctuary, but when I learned what you were¡ªwhat you became¡ªI knew I had to make myself worthy of hunting you down.¡±
She stepped back, composing herself.
¡°The Black Chapel exists for a reason,¡± she continued, eyes narrowing. ¡°We were founded in the shadows.. When magic and alchemy ran unchecked, when this world teetered on the edge of collapse, we did what the Inquisition couldn¡¯t¡ªwe purged the corruption.¡±
Lucien¡¯s smirk didn¡¯t fade, but his fingers curled slightly. He already knew this.
She continued, circling him now like a wolf speaking to its prey. ¡°We don¡¯t just hunt witches. We prevent the return of the gods. That rumor that¡¯s been spreading around about god''s being trapped in the sun and the moon, and the Marked Ones trying to release them.¡±
Lucien finally tilted his head at that. ¡°So the Black Chapel¡¯s scared of bedtime stories now?¡±
Sella¡¯s lips curled, but there was no humor in it.
¡°The Architect¡¯s plan has been known to us for centuries,¡± she murmured. ¡°The Marked Ones think they¡¯re fighting for a new world, but we know the truth. If they succeed, this world ends.¡±
Lucien let out a slow whistle. ¡°Heavy stuff. Who¡¯s this Architect guy?¡±
¡°It¡¯s just¡something I heard from the Exarch.¡±
Sella ignored him. Instead, she reached into her coat, pulling out a silver pendant on a thin chain, holding it between her gloved fingers.
A black cathedral, a sun split in two.
¡°This,¡± she said, voice softer, but no less sharp, ¡°is what we fight for. A world without gods, the plague, witches, everything.¡±
Lucien¡¯s gaze flicked to it, unreadable. Then, slowly, he grinned.
¡°And yet,¡± he said, ¡°you still haven¡¯t tried to kill me.¡±
Sella¡¯s jaw clenched.
She wanted to.
She really, really wanted to.
But something stopped her.
Something she didn¡¯t have a name for.
So instead, she took a slow breath and stepped even closer, until her words were a whisper against his skin.
¡°I will kill you, Albrecht,¡± she murmured. ¡°I will stay by your side until I find a way to do it. You¡¯re not special. Everyone dies. No one is immortal. But you¡¯re toughness is troublesome.¡±
Her heartbeat slammed against her ribs.
¡®Why am I craving something¡? What even is it? I keep looking at his neck, like something is reaching for me there¡¡¯
She clenched her teeth, forcing the thought down.
Lucien barely reacted. Behind him, his summons¡ªThe Joker, King, Queen, and Jack¡ªlooked at each other, silently exchanging glances.
Lucien sighed, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. ¡°Great. Another stalker. No thanks.¡±
Sella blinked. ¡°What? I-I command you to allow me to follow you!¡±
Lucien shrugged. ¡°I¡¯ve already got an annoying cat who follows me around, and a goddess who won¡¯t shut up in my head. I don¡¯t have room for any more clingy people.¡±
Sella¡¯s eye twitched.
¡°You¡¯re an idiot.¡±
¡°Aww.¡±
She exhaled, shaking her head, then smiling seductively, ¡°Hmm. It¡¯s strange. If you know I¡¯m going to kill you, why don¡¯t you just kill me first?¡±
Lucien met her gaze, and for a split second, there was something¡ªnot playful, not mocking, but tired.
¡°I don¡¯t kill unless I feel threatened,¡± he said simply. ¡°Or if I get paid.¡±
Sella stared at him. ¡°¡You¡¯re serious?¡±
¡®Tch! He¡¯s not threatened by my presence?! After all I''ve done to get strong enough to kill him?!¡¯
¡°Yeah.¡± He shrugged. ¡°Not really a fan of random murder.¡±
There was something about the way he said it, something that made her pause. She inhaled sharply, then turned on her heel, stepping toward the edge of the rooftop. ¡°The Black Chapel won¡¯t hear of this.¡±
Lucien raised a brow. ¡°Yeah? Gee thanks.¡± He didn¡¯t mean it.
¡°But more hunters will come for you,¡± she continued. ¡°And next time, I won¡¯t just be watching.¡±
Lucien yawned, stretching his arms behind his head. ¡°Sounds exhausting. Why don¡¯t you wanna tell them? Ya know, you ALL could just attack me at once? Overwhelm me and shit. It¡¯ll be epic.¡±
Sella laughed, ¡°Ha! That would be foolish. I don¡¯t want anyone to claim my prize. And if I bring your head to the Exarch¡I will finally be worthy of the power he promised.¡±
Lucien pointed at himself, teasing, ¡°I¡¯m your prize huh? Are you trying to romance me?¡±
Sella slightly became flustered, and she scoffed, ¡°Pfft. You wish. I don¡¯t have time for romance, relationships, only my duty.¡±
¡°Yeah? Same here.¡±
Sella shot him a sharp glare over her shoulder. ¡°I¡¯ll find you later.¡±
Lucien smirked. ¡°HOLD UP. I didn¡¯t say you could just follow me around!¡±
¡°Hm? Guess you didn¡¯t. Since you won¡¯t force me away, I made my own choice.¡±
Her emerald eyes lingered on him.
Just for a second.
And then she was gone.
Lucien sighed, and he stood there, thinning, ¡®Am I really letting her follow me around? I¡¯ve heard of her, she was definitely in another sanctuary of the Black Chapel, as there are plenty all over the world. I like my loneliness¡I don¡¯t need anyone trying to destroy that. But I¡¯m entertained by this honestly. But for Sella, the main reason I want her around, I can possibly figure out why the Exarch took me down before. It wasn¡¯t because I wanted to carve my own path? Was it because I left without warning? Because I was almost caring about some of my own Hunters? I didn¡¯t want to form any relationship, seeing how being tied down to anything makes your life even more stressful, less free. I left before I could feel bad for anyone dying in front of me. I hardened my heart for a reason. And even through all of that, I can¡¯t even love myself.¡¯
¡
The streets of Drakhelm pulsed with the feverish rhythm of the city¡¯s restless heart, the train station at its center a roaring beast of steam, iron, and ceaseless movement. The scent of burning coal and alchemic oil mingled with the damp musk of bodies packed too close together, voices rising and falling like an untamed tide.
Lucien, with Torch in his shoulder, walked through the crowd, his new attire catching the gaslight in sharp, elegant contrast. His suit¡ªa deep, arterial red¡ªwas embroidered with white filigree along the cuffs and lapels, the fine silk lined with hidden layers of reinforced stitching. A matching mask, pale with crimson etchings, concealed the upper half of his face, leaving only his vivid red eyes exposed. His braided ponytail swayed slightly as he moved, each step measured, unhurried, untouched by the chaos around him.
The city never changed.
It was always people, rushing to be anywhere but where they were.
A group of workers slouched near a smoking automaton, its brass limbs worn from overuse as it helped reconstruct a fire-gutted building.
¡°Another one up in flames,¡± one muttered, rubbing soot from his face. ¡°Damn rats set their own shop on fire just to collect insurance.¡±
¡°Nah. That¡¯s Red Death cleanup, ain¡¯t it? That plague?¡± Another grunted, adjusting his cap. ¡°They say when the infection reaches the lungs, the coughing alone can burn a house down.¡±
A woman nearby pulled her shawl tighter around her shoulders, glancing nervously toward a cluster of figures hunched beneath a tattered awning. Their bodies were wrapped in sackcloth, faces hidden, though the faint sound of wet, hacking coughs could still be heard.
¡°It¡¯s getting worse,¡± someone whispered. ¡°The plague ward¡¯s overrun. They¡¯re just letting them die in the streets now.¡±
Lucien scoffed under his breath.
¡®Pathetic. Look at them¡ªhuddling together like dying animals, clinging to a life already lost. They should have the dignity to rot in private.¡¯
His gaze swept the station, cataloging details like ink in a journal. A merchant peddled alchemic trinkets, claiming his charms could ward off sickness. A gun seller displayed his wares on a velvet cloth, his voice loud, insistent¡ªeach bullet handcrafted, each barrel polished to perfection. Near the platform¡¯s edge, a young woman argued with an officer automaton, its metal frame standing rigid as it reviewed her identification papers in its mechanical voice.
And then there was the paperboy, standing atop a wooden crate, waving the evening news in ink-stained fingers.
¡°PLAGUE RIOTS IN THE LOWER QUARTERS! RED DEATH CASES UP 200%¡ªQUARANTINES FAILING!¡±
¡°BLACK CRYSTAL OUTBREAK IN SOLRITH¡ªINQUISTORS STRUGGLE TO CONTAIN THE MARKED!¡±
¡°CIRCUS SLAUGHTER! FAMOUS WITCH HUNTER BELIEVED TO BE INVOLVED¡ªAUTHORITIES INVESTIGATING!¡±
¡°BLACK CHAPEL SIGHTINGS! ORDER OF SHADOWS EXECUTES SUSPECTED CULT LEADERS IN VUELPORT¡ªNO BODIES FOUND!¡±
¡°AETHEROS TRADE ROUTES DISRUPTED! GUILD CONFLICTS ESCALATING¡ªPRICES EXPECTED TO SKYROCKET!¡±
Lucien smirked beneath his mask as the murmurs rippled through the crowd.
¡°Black Chapel, huh?¡± a man muttered to his companion. ¡°If those zealots are moving, it means someone important pissed them off.¡±
¡°Tch. Doesn¡¯t matter. They only hunt in the dark. You never see ¡®em coming.¡±
¡°Huh?! They hunt night and day!¡±
Lucien filed the information away, as he always did. He never trusted news to be entirely true, but it always held a sliver of something useful. At the edge of the platform, the train conductor stood beside a large, brass-plated ticket automaton, its clockwork fingers counting coins with meticulous precision. Lucien approached, reaching into his coat.
He withdrew a single coin, slipping it onto the counter.
The currency was unique¡ªa circular piece of obsidian metal, its center carved with an intricate spiral of interwoven symbols. This was no ordinary fare. The conductor¡¯s eyes flickered with recognition, but he made no comment. He simply nodded, gesturing toward the train doors.
¡°Ha-Have a good ride sir¡!¡± He said with weariness.
Lucien stepped inside, knowing the conductor was aware of who he was, just by the hair and the eyes.
The automaton at the entrance whirred to life, its mechanical voice ringing out with a grating cheerfulness.
¡°WELCOME, PASSENGER. PLEASE OBSERVE THE FOLLOWING RULES.¡±
Lucien¡¯s eye twitched.
¡°NO OPEN FLAMES. NO UNREGISTERED ALCHEMIC SUBSTANCES. NO EXCESSIVE NOISE. NO PETS. NO¡ª¡±
Lucien shoved past it with an irritated grunt.
Torch, perched comfortably on his shoulder, flicked his tail.
¡°NO PETS DETECTED.¡± The automaton chirped, its glowing eyes scanning Lucien. ¡°HAVE A SAFE JOURNEY.¡±
Lucien stared at it, deadpan. Then at Torch.
Torch stared back.
Lucien shook his head, muttering under his breath as he walked deeper into the train.
¡®The automatons can¡¯t see him?¡¯
The cabin was empty.
Good.
He took a seat near the window as the train doors hissed shut, gears shifting, levers clicking into place. A deep mechanical groan rolled through the floorboards, and then¡ªthe lurch of movement.
The city began to slide away, its lights fading behind a veil of steam and smoke.
Lucien leaned back, arms crossed, watching the blurred skyline disappear.
Torch settled beside him, his small frame barely making a dent in the seat.
Lucien sighed.
¡®People always look happiest when they¡¯re with someone else. Holding hands, sharing food, leaning on each other like the world isn¡¯t a festering corpse beneath their feet. I can¡¯t decide if I envy them or despise them.¡¯
He tilted his head slightly, watching a family still visible on the station¡¯s platform¡ªtwo parents, a child between them, laughing as they waved someone off.
¡®They¡¯ll cling to each other, tie themselves down with love, marriage, jobs they despise, homes they can¡¯t afford. They¡¯ll make their lives smaller and call it happiness.¡¯
He scoffed.
¡®Idiots.¡¯
His gaze flicked to the reflection in the glass¡ªhis own masked face staring back at him, unreadable.
¡®Then again¡ being alone isn¡¯t all it¡¯s cracked up to be either.¡¯
His fingers tapped against his arm, thoughtful.
¡®Doesn¡¯t matter. Attachments are just chains with fancier names. People lie. People leave. People die. It¡¯s better this way. No gods. No masters. No fate.¡¯
Torch let out a slow, drawn-out yawn beside him.
Lucien glanced at him.
¡°¡You¡¯re not people.¡±
Torch blinked once, then curled his tail around his paws.
Lucien exhaled, closing his eyes as the train carried him further into the unknown.
The train rumbled forward, cutting through the vast industrial veins of the city, a machine gliding across the bones of a dying world. Lucien sat with his elbow against the window, his gaze drifting across the landscape as flickering street lamps and smokestacks blurred together in ribbons of light and soot.
Outside, the world remained a grand mess of iron, brass, and decay. Steam vents hissed from beneath the streets, releasing gouts of vapor that momentarily swallowed passing carriages. Massive airships hovered above, their hulking frames casting long, sluggish shadows over the rooftops. Bridges of metal and stone crisscrossed the cityscape, where merchants peddled wares even in the dawn of the day and dead of the night¡ªalchemy sellers hawking their bottled miracles, black-market arms dealers whispering promises of bullets that could kill anything, even ghosts.
A group of workers toiled near the base of a ruined factory, automatons assisting them in rebuilding what looked to have been an old alchemic refinery, recently reduced to a skeletal frame of charred steel beams. Nearby, officers in dark coats stood in a loose circle, dragging a man out from an alleyway¡ªhis skin sickly, his breath rattling.
Lucien let out a slow sigh¡ª
And froze.
There was someone sitting beside him.
Chapter 3: Plague Doctor
The weight of a presence that hadn¡¯t been there a moment ago. Silent. Absolute. Uninvited.
Lucien didn¡¯t react immediately. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, catching the figure in his periphery.
A man clad in a plague doctor¡¯s attire, the crow-like mask sharp and smooth, the lenses of his goggles glowing an eerie green, pulsing faintly like something alive. A wide-brimmed hat sat atop his head, casting half his figure in shadow, and a long, black trench coat draped over his seated form, motionless, as if he had been there all along.
The train carried on.
The silence between them thickened.
Lucien let the moment stretch, watching the steam roll past the shattered skyline, waiting for the first word to be spoken.
It didn¡¯t come.
So, he smirked beneath his mask.
¡°Well, go on then. Say something cryptic. I know you¡¯re dying to.¡±
Vaelle turned his head slightly, the glow of his lenses shifting as if studying Lucien, peeling him apart layer by layer. Then, in a voice like a man speaking through the echo of a grave, he finally responded.
¡°Did you know a dead man is heavier than a living one?¡±
Lucien huffed a quiet laugh. ¡°Is that so?¡±
Vaelle nodded slowly.
¡°Yes. Because a man with breath carries only the weight of his sins. But a dead man¡ carries the weight of his eternity.¡±
Lucien clicked his tongue, unimpressed. ¡°That¡¯s cute.¡±
¡°Do you ever think about it?¡± Vaelle¡¯s tone remained unreadable. ¡°The weight of eternity? Of chaos, of destruction, of peace?¡±
Lucien leaned his head back against the window. ¡°I try not to think at all, really. Thinking leads to questions. Questions lead to headaches. Fuck it.¡±
Vaelle let out a quiet chuckle, though there was no humor in it.
¡°So you¡¯re still the same. Still drifting. Still pretending you¡¯re not a force of nature waiting to be unshackled.¡±
Lucien turned his head slightly. ¡°And you¡¯re still talking like an executioner with a poetry addiction. Doesn¡¯t it get boring?¡±
Vaelle reached into his coat.
Lucien¡¯s gaze flickered down, but he didn¡¯t move.
From the folds of dark fabric, Vaelle withdrew something round and damp, still leaking. He lifted it up, holding it between gloved fingers.
A severed head.
The face was twisted in a permanent snarl, the mouth frozen mid-curse, the eyes gouged out, black veins spider webbing across the pale skin. A witch¡¯s head.
¡°She called herself Laeyrinna the Hollow¡¯s Eve, a daughter of the old covens. She thought she could bend the blood of nuns from a church, make her own throne from their bodies. She did not see the blade that came for her.¡±
Lucien exhaled. ¡°You lot always did enjoy the theatrics.¡±
Vaelle studied the head for a moment, then, without warning, crushed it in his hand. Bone cracked, flesh collapsed, a wet splatter of darkened blood staining his gloves.
Lucien didn¡¯t bat an eye.
Vaelle wiped his hand off with a cloth, tossing the remains aside. ¡°And yet, you still breathe. Alive..¡±
Lucien scoffed, rubbing his temple. ¡°I noticed.¡±
¡°The Inquisition. The Black Chapel. They all still want your head.¡±
Lucien sighed dramatically. ¡°Yes, thank you, I¡¯m well aware. Been told that a hundred times.¡±
Vaelle leaned forward slightly, fingers interlocked. ¡°The Black Chapel never forgets its own.¡±
Lucien¡¯s voice dropped into something sharper. ¡°I was never theirs¡after a while. Getting bossed around, and all this other shit..don¡¯t you get tired of it?¡±
Vaelle let the silence stretch, then murmured:
¡°We are the unseen dagger. The silent sentence. The execution without a jury.¡±
Lucien¡¯s grin sharpened. ¡°We are the noose that tightens. The shadow in the corner of your eye. The last breath before the throat is cut.¡±
A quiet pause.
The train carried on.
The tension between them thickened, pressing against the air, stretching unbearably¡ª
Then, without warning¡ªthey vanished.
A blur of motion. A crack of impact.
Torch yelped, thrown into the air, eyes wide as he spun weightlessly for a moment.
Lucien and Vaelle collided.
Vaelle¡¯s scythe roared to life, its blade glowing a sickly green, dripping with a slow, viscous poison that hissed as it made contact with the air. Lucien caught it barehanded, stopping the strike mid-swing.
The force of the impact was monstrous.
The train windows exploded outward, glass scattering into the storming wind. Half the train¡¯s interior collapsed inward, metal twisting like paper beneath the raw pressure of their clash.
Vaelle¡¯s eyes burned behind his mask, his voice no longer dry, no longer measured. Now, it was alight with something wild, something hungry.
¡°There it is. There¡¯s the strength I¡¯ve been waiting for!¡±
Lucien grinned, his fingers tightening around the blade.
Vaelle tilted his head, excitement thrumming in his voice. ¡°You are still my greatest rival, Lucien. The only one in the Black Chapel who can match me! What¡¯s this? Our 55th fight?! And still no winner?!¡±
Lucien scoffed. ¡°I¡¯m not with you bastards anymore. And yeah, this will be our 55th, and of course no winner, none of us can die that easily.¡±
¡°You were always restless, weren¡¯t you? Always wanting to do your own thing. But tell me, Lucien¡ªwhat is it that you truly seek?¡±
Lucien didn¡¯t answer.
¡®Do I really know¡?¡¯
The train groaned beneath them, still moving, still hurtling through the night¡ª
And the battle had only just begun.
The storming sky blurred past in a streak of iron and moonlight, the thunderous roar of steel wheels carving through the tracks beneath them. The train lurched, shuddering from the raw force of the battle tearing through its walls, metal screaming in protest as two unstoppable forces clashed in a whirlwind of ferocity and precision.
Vaelle struck first, lunging like a wraith, his plague doctor¡¯s mask gleaming under the flickering cabin lights. His scythe arced through the air, trailing a toxic green mist, its blade shifting between solid and spectral, warping between dimensions like a mirage of death. Lucien vaulted backward, boots skidding across the polished floor as the scythe sliced the air where his ribs had been seconds before, leaving a gash in reality itself.
Lucien retaliated instantly, his golden revolver flashing as he fired a point-blank shot. The bullet ignited the air, spiraling with black and red alchemic energy, but Vaelle twisted midair, his coat snapping like a whip, the bullet grazing past him as he somersaulted off a handrail and rebounded from the ceiling with impossible agility. He came down like a falling guillotine, scythe flashing in a blur¡ª
Lucien caught it with his bare hands.
The blade should have split him apart. Instead, red flames exploded from his palms, racing along the weapon¡¯s length, turning it into molten metal in seconds. Vaelle didn¡¯t hesitate¡ªhis body disintegrated into smoke, slipping through Lucien¡¯s grip like an illusion before materializing behind him, already mid-strike.
Lucien barely twisted in time, parrying with his revolver, the gun¡¯s reinforced barrel colliding with the scythe¡¯s poisoned edge, sending sparks cascading across the cabin. The train groaned violently, windows shattering from the pressure as the sheer force of their attacks warped the very air around them.
Then Vaelle moved.
His scythe spun like a clockwork executioner¡¯s axe, sweeping in a rapid, intricate sequence of cut-thrust-twist-slash, his every motion fluid and mercilessly precise. Lucien dodged and countered in kind, his fists detonating with each impact, the red energy bursting from his strikes carving through steel walls like butter.
A half-second opening¡ªVaelle seized it.
He slammed his knee into Lucien¡¯s ribs, sending him rocketing through a metal door, shattering it in a fiery explosion of torn steel and embers. Lucien skidded across the next train car, rolling into a crouch just as Vaelle emerged through the smoke, his scythe now split into two curved blades, dripping with corrosive, seething emerald venom.
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
Lucien vaulted off the floor, spinning mid-air, his heel crashing down like a meteor, red energy flaring outward in a concussive shockwave. Vaelle caught the strike on his crossed blades, but the force sent him skidding backward, his boots tearing trenches into the iron flooring.
Lucien charged, closing the gap instantly, throwing a barrage of feral, explosive punches. His fists connected with the air like cannon fire, and for every blow Vaelle parried, another slipped through¡ªshattering ribs, crushing bone, igniting flesh. But Vaelle was unrelenting, countering with blindingly fast retaliations, his blades carving precise, poisoned lacerations into Lucien¡¯s arms and torso, the toxins sizzling on contact.
Their wounds healed almost instantly, flesh reknitting, but the agony was constant, endless.
Vaelle ducked low, pivoting on one foot, his coat billowing like a phantom¡¯s shroud as he slashed upward. His twin blades screamed through the air, Lucien bent backward, nearly horizontal, dodging by the width of a breath before snapping forward with a brutal headbutt, sending Vaelle crashing through the train¡¯s ceiling¡ª
Lucien pursued instantly, launching himself through the wreckage, the two of them now brawling atop the roaring train, the wind howling as they exchanged an unrelenting hurricane of attacks.
Vaelle moved with inhuman elegance, his form shifting between solid and ethereal, his poisoned blades extending and retracting like they had a life of their own. He vaulted over Lucien¡¯s sweep kick, landed on his hands, and used the momentum to twist his entire body into a spinning aerial slash¡ª
Lucien caught his leg mid-spin, slammed him down, and fired his revolver directly against Vaelle¡¯s mask.
The bullet detonated in an eruption of red lightning and black fire, tearing the air apart¡ªbut Vaelle¡¯s form shattered into smoke, reappearing behind Lucien in a blur of movement, his scythe reforming into a massive glaive, already mid-strike.
Lucien barely spun to block, his forearm erupting in red energy, catching the blade as it sank halfway into his bone. He snarled through the pain, his other hand igniting as he punched Vaelle point-blank in the ribs, sending him hurtling down the length of the train like a meteor.
Vaelle caught himself last second, using his glaive to impale the roof, stopping his momentum. He wrenched it free, spun it like a bladed hurricane, and then¡ª
He disappeared.
Lucien¡¯s instincts screamed. He dove to the side, narrowly avoiding a black spike of pure venom that erupted from where he had been standing. More spikes followed, piercing through the train like spears, the poison sizzling as it melted through iron like acid through paper.
Lucien somersaulted through the chaos, dodging, twisting, vaulting, his every movement an intricate counter to the ever-shifting battlefield. Then he saw it¡ªVaelle moving through the poison, his form flickering between solid and liquid, his very existence flowing like a specter through his own attacks.
Lucien grinned.
He could play that game too.
He planted his hand on the train¡¯s roof, red energy igniting along the entire surface. In an instant, the entire train became his weapon.
Vaelle lunged¡ªbut the train itself roared to life, flames surging from every panel, twisting and morphing into whip-like tendrils of molten iron. The metal coiled, surged, and slammed into Vaelle with the force of an explosion, launching him skyward.
Lucien pursued in an instant, spinning through the air, meeting Vaelle mid-fall with an earth-shattering punch, his fist detonating against Vaelle¡¯s ribs, sending him hurtling back down like a meteorite.
They crashed through the train¡¯s roof, smashing through multiple cabins, tearing through iron walls and glass windows, slamming through seats, doors, and cargo like wrecking balls.
And then¡ª
The train hit a sharp turn.
The momentum ripped them from the wreckage, hurling them out of the train, into the abyss of the storming night.
Lucien twisted midair, Vaelle already snapping his weapons back into place, the two of them falling, spinning, closing the gap for one final strike¡ª
___________________________________________
The Infernal Coliseum roared with life, its towering iron-and-brass walls vibrating from the sheer force of thousands of voices. Gas lamps flickered from massive wrought-iron fixtures, casting the oval racetrack in an eerie golden glow. Steam hissed from underground vents, the scent of burning oil and damp metal thick in the air. This was the heart of Drakhelm¡¯s underground thrill¡ª
The Iron Stampede.
A death-defying, lawless race where only the most daring¡ªor most suicidal¡ªcompeted. Riders atop steel horses, machines of polished brass and alchemic engines, lined up at the starting platform. Each mechanical steed was a masterpiece of raw power and reckless innovation, their limbs sculpted to resemble horse-like frames, their internal furnaces roaring with untamed energy. Smoke curled from their exhaust ports, and their metallic hooves sparked against the cobblestone as they pawed at the ground in restless anticipation.
The grandstands, packed with aristocrats, crime lords, merchants, and drunkards, buzzed with chaotic energy.
¡°Fifty sovereigns on Red Gale!¡± a man in a plumed hat bellowed, slamming his bet onto a wrought-iron counter, where bookkeepers scribbled numbers with lightning-fast precision.
¡°You¡¯re mad! The Hellfire Mare¡¯s gonna take this one!¡± a woman in an extravagant scarlet corset argued, pointing down at the track, where a sleek black steel horse, etched with hellish engravings, snorted out a burst of crimson steam.
Closer to the pit, mechanics and alchemists scrambled around the competitors, making last-minute calibrations to their arcane-fueled engines. Sparks showered as one of them wrenched a valve open, checking the pressure in the core of a massive, six-legged steed nicknamed Iron Revenant.
¡°Oi! Your stabilizer¡¯s acting up! If it overheats again, you¡¯ll be scrap by the second lap!¡± one of the pit workers warned.
The racer, a tattooed brute with alchemic circuits burned into his skin, spat onto the track. ¡°That¡¯s the point.¡±
Up in the VIP booths, nobles clinked their gold-rimmed glasses, indulging in black honey wine and placing outrageous wagers. One of them, a lord draped in gilded furs, smirked as he leaned over to his Inquisition bodyguard.
¡°I hear three of the riders are exiled Purge-worshippers. This should be quite the show.¡±
His guard merely grunted, arms crossed.
A mechanical whistle screeched, signaling the final countdown.
Ten. The horses reared, their engines howling.
Nine. The crowd leaned forward, anticipation thick in the air.
Eight. Riders adjusted their goggles, gripping their reins with white-knuckled determination.
Seven. The starting pistons engaged, gears clicking into place.
Six. The announcer¡¯s voice rang out, reverberating through the coliseum.
¡°Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to tonight¡¯s IRON STAMPEDE!¡±
Five. The racers lowered their torsos, bodies aligned with their machines.
Four. The front gates unlocked, mechanisms whirring.
Three. The audience held their breath.
Two. The world froze.
One.
The gunshot cracked through the night.
A deafening explosion of motion followed.
The steel horses tore forward, kicking up sparks and dust as they shot down the track in a blur of molten brass and crimson fire. Exhaust trails billowed behind them, some leaving streaks of white-hot plasma, others sparks of alchemic blue.
The first turn came in fast¡ªfar too fast for the untrained. The leading racer, Hellfire Mare¡¯s rider, yanked hard on the reins, forcing his steed into a near-impossible sideways drift, its hooves grinding against the stone, sending a hailstorm of molten debris into the air.
Behind him, Iron Revenant surged forward, its hydraulic limbs extending, vaulting over the competitors ahead like a lunging predator.
A lesser racer hesitated. A mistake.
The moment¡¯s hesitation allowed Red Gale to intercept, its rider twisting the reins, sending a controlled burst of fire from the horse¡¯s exhaust, scorching the nearest opponent¡¯s machine in an instant.
The poor fool¡¯s steel horse collapsed mid-stride, its internal mechanisms melting into slag, and the crowd erupted in cheers and screams.
¡°That bastard just torched Black Vulture!¡±
¡°This is madness!¡±
¡°This is BLOODY BRILLIANT!¡±
The racers entered the second lap, the gaps between them narrowing, their steel titans clashing against one another, hooves sparking violently as they jostled for position. Two racers locked arms, grappling atop their mounts in a desperate bid to throw the other off¡ª
Then someone screamed.
A new kind of scream.
¡°LOOK! UP THERE!¡±
Heads snapped toward the sky.
Two figures were plummeting from the heavens, their bodies silhouettes against the coliseum lights. The sight alone sent a ripple of panic through the audience, but the terror magnified when they realized¡ª
They weren¡¯t just falling.
They were fighting.
Lucien and Vaelle collided mid-air, fists shattering the wind itself, their forms wreathed in crimson fire and poisonous mist. Their impact sent sonic booms rolling across the city, the shockwaves rattling the entire coliseum.
¡°By the gods¡¡± someone whispered.
Then¡ª
THOOOOM.
The ground split open upon impact.
A fiery explosion engulfed the racetrack, debris and flaming embers raining down like a meteor storm. The shockwave sent racers spiraling out of control, their mechanical steeds toppling like dominos, some erupting into flames, others crashing through the barricades.
The audience erupted into chaos.
Some screamed and ran, pushing past each other in a desperate bid for safety. Others, too entranced by the spectacle, merely stood frozen, eyes locked on the smoldering crater.
The dust began to settle.
And through the rising veil of smoke¡ªtwo figures remained.
Lucien¡¯s hand was buried through Vaelle¡¯s chest, fingers clutching his still-beating heart, red energy crackling violently.
Vaelle¡¯s scythe was buried through Lucien¡¯s face, its poisoned edge lodged deep into his skull, venom sizzling against his flesh.
Neither moved.
Neither fell.
And then¡ªthey began to regenerate.
Slowly. Horrifically. Their wounds mended before the crowd¡¯s very eyes.
¡°They¡¯re still alive¡¡±
The words spread like wildfire. Some watched in awe, mesmerized. Others saw monsters where men should have been, their fear turning to sheer panic.
And panic was contagious.
A single bolt of gunfire rang out¡ªthen more.
The first shot came from a terrified guard. More followed.
The crowd erupted in chaos.
Lucien, ignoring the turmoil, slowly pulled his head free from the scythe, his skull snapping back into place, bones knitting as if he had never been wounded at all. He spat out blood, rolling his neck with a lazy grin.
Vaelle exhaled, yanking Lucien¡¯s hand from his chest, the hole closing before the final drop of blood could even hit the ground.
They locked eyes.
Vaelle chuckled, flexing his fingers. ¡°This¡¡± He inhaled sharply, his voice thrumming with exhilaration. ¡°This is the most fun I¡¯ve had in years.¡±
Lucien scowled. ¡°Are you just gonna follow me around forever, popping up out of nowhere?¡±
Vaelle tilted his head, his glowing lenses flickering. ¡°Some things never change, rival.¡±
Lucien groaned.
And then¡ªthey clashed again.
What had once been a grand arena of spectacle and chaos was now nothing more than a shattered battlefield, a monument to destruction left in the wake of two unrelenting forces. The racetrack was torn apart, great fissures splitting through the stone where fists had landed, where bodies had crashed. Molten steel horses burned in twisted heaps, their riders either unconscious or long gone. The remaining spectators stood on the fringes of devastation, too afraid to move, too enthralled to look away.
And at the center of it all¡ªLucien and Vaelle.
Both men stood bloodied but unbowed, steam rising from their regenerating wounds.
Vaelle took a slow breath, rolling his shoulders, stretching out the tension in his limbs. Then, he exhaled.
His body relaxed. His stance settled.
The fire was gone.
The thrill was gone.
Lucien watched as the shift in Vaelle¡¯s presence became palpable. There was no exhilaration now, no lingering echoes of battle¡¯s high. No sly remarks, no amusement. Just calm. Just normal.
That contrast¡ªit never got old.
Vaelle adjusted his coat, rolling his sore wrist. His voice, level and controlled, broke the silence.
¡°You¡¯re still hard to kill.¡±
Lucien, still catching his breath, gave a slow nod. ¡°So are you.¡±
They stood there for a moment, the smoke curling around them, the distant shouts of frantic civilians fading into irrelevance. The blood between them was already gone, their bodies mending, erasing all evidence of what had just happened¡ªexcept for the wreckage around them.
Lucien exhaled, dragging a hand through his tangled, blood-matted hair.
¡°Guess nothing¡¯s changed,¡± he muttered.
Vaelle¡¯s head tilted slightly. ¡°Not much.¡±
There was a long silence.
Lucien¡¯s gaze flicked up. ¡°It¡¯s strange,¡± he said after a pause. ¡°When we fight, you act like it¡¯s the best thing in the world. Then it¡¯s over, and you act like it never happened.¡±
Vaelle¡¯s expression didn¡¯t shift. ¡°That¡¯s how it is.¡±
Lucien studied him for a moment, then let out a tired scoff. ¡°Yeah. It is.¡±
Vaelle turned away.
¡°We both grew up in the shadows of the Exarch,¡± he murmured, adjusting the high collar of his coat. ¡°Trained directly under him.¡±
Lucien felt something twist in his gut at those words.
¡°We were supposed to be his greatest,¡± Vaelle continued, his voice as steady as ever. ¡°And here we are. Both alive. Both trying to kill each other.¡±
Lucien looked down at his hands, flexing them, feeling the faint echoes of battle still burning under his skin. He let out a slow breath. ¡°I guess we both failed.¡±
Vaelle was quiet for a moment, then shook his head. ¡°Not yet.¡±
With that, he turned, stepping over the wreckage, walking away with measured, deliberate steps.
¡°I¡¯ll see you again, Bloodhound,¡± he said over his shoulder. ¡°And we¡¯ll do this again.¡±
Lucien exhaled. ¡°Yeah,¡± he muttered. ¡°I know.¡±
Then¡ªa familiar weight on his shoulder.
Lucien stiffened.
Torch, his ever-present black cat with burning golden eyes, had reappeared, tail flicking lazily.
Lucien narrowed his eyes, grabbed the cat by the scruff of his neck¡ª
And threw him.
Torch twisted mid-air, landing with perfect grace on a broken crate a few feet away.
A second later, he was back on Lucien¡¯s shoulder.
Lucien sighed, rubbing his temple.
¡°¡Of course.¡±